


Mind Games and Dream Fragments

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Coercion, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Aid keeps his desires secret, confiding in a very few trusted friends. Captured by the Decepticons and sent to Combaticon HQ for interrogation, he learns his fantasies aren’t quite as secret as he’d thought. </p><p>Contains: hard dubcon/noncon, rape fantasy, coercion, sticky, angst, mention of violence.</p><p>This fic was inspired by <a href="http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15475093#t15475093">this comment on the Kinkmeme</a>. </p><p>Massive thanks to 12drakon for encouragement, comments and critique <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Games and Dream Fragments

"Don't make eye contact," Beachcomber whispered, as they trudged through the doorway into Combaticon HQ.

First Aid swallowed, and tried to pretend he'd been looking at Windcharger's heels all along. In the corner of his eye, the Combaticon rotary smirked.

"It'll be OK," Beachcomber said as the daylight faded, and the last breath of a desert breeze sent sand skimming across the floor. "It's all going to be OK."

"Sure it is," Windcharger muttered.

"Get a move on!" One of the Decepticons yelled. First Aid glanced up long enough to see the tank wave his rifle, his free hand balled in a fist. "What are you looking at, oil stain?"

First Aid stared at the floor, but it was Huffer up front who had attracted Brawl's attention. Beachcomber reached for First Aid's hand, a brush of fingers, a reassuring momentary mesh of their energy fields. Then Huffer snarled and snapped, "Nothing," and Brawl didn't shoot him.

None of them had been shot, it was a small miracle. Huffer's lip was cracked, Windcharger's knuckles torn. Beachcomber had a dent on his hip from falling into Blast Off's cargo hold, and First Aid had a crack in his mask. It was nothing that couldn't wait.

"File in!" Brawl yelled, and First Aid cringed at the whine in his audio receptors. "One per cell, pick your feet up!"

Daylight didn't reach here. Sodium strip lights hung from the ceiling, Earth-made and miniature in the Cybertronian scale of the cells. They cast deep shadows, not dispelled by the faint glow of the energon bars. 

First Aid crossed the threshold and heard the bars activate behind him. There were bars all around him, more a cage than a cell. Huffer was grumbling, Windcharger hissing at him to shut up. Brawl snapped something, but First Aid couldn’t hear it. The bars were so loud, a buzz seeping into his metal, vibrating in his fuel tank. 

A cough cut through the noise, and he shook his head. Beachcomber was in the cell next to him, looking kindly at him through the mesh of glowing pink lines. 

First Aid turned to see what Brawl was up to, but the Combaticon had gone. They’d all gone. 

“Aid?” Beachcomber said. “Aid, it’s OK. Optimus knows we’re here, Prowl will have a plan. They’re coming for us.”

“They’d better hurry,” Huffer cut in. 

“They will,” Beachcomber said. “Aid, are you OK?”

First Aid nodded. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I…” He took a long clear vent, a careful moment’s study of the cages, their connections, the fuel hookup. “I can’t disable the bars, not without my tools.”

“I’m not expecting you to,” Beachcomber said. “Sit down, yeah? Conserve your energy.”

A clang in the cell on the other side was Windcharger making himself comfortable. “Might as well make the most of it,” he said. “Rule one: if you got the opportunity to rest, rest.”

Huffer sniffed. “That’s rule two. First rule of being captured by Decepticons is ‘Don’t give them anything’. Not your name, not your tyre pressure, nothing.” He sat heavily in the centre of his cage. “ _Then_ it’s rest.”

First Aid scanned the floor. Concrete, bare and surprisingly clean. He sat down, as close to Beachcomber - and the bars - as he could. 

“You’ll be OK,” Beachcomber said. “We all will.”

“I hope so,” First Aid said. “And it’s OK, I mean it. I’ve had the training, we all have. With Jazz.”

“Training!” Huffer spat.

Windcharger kicked the floor. “Knock it off. ”

Huffer bridled, and Beachcomber raised his hands. “We’re all friends here,” he said. “We need to support each other. Arguing won’t get us anywhere.”

Huffer grunted, and Windcharger shrugged. Beachcomber sighed, and leaned in towards the bars. When he spoke again his voice was barely a whisper. “You’re smart,” he said. “You’re resourceful, you’re brave. But while you’re in here you need to be dull, OK?”

First Aid blinked. “I’m not sure-”

“Be slow,” Beachcomber said. “Do what you’re told, and don’t speak up, don’t give them any reason to notice you.” 

First Aid nodded, a shiver working its way through him. “I’ll try,” he said. 

***

A day passed, and the rescue party did not come. Huffer and Windcharger bickered through the bars, their arguments interspersed with word games and the odd bitter reminiscence. This situation wasn’t new to them. 

Beachcomber meditated, and First Aid followed his lead, focusing on his in-vents, listening to the rhythm of his spark. 

He couldn’t tell if it helped. The cell was made of small aggravations; the buzzing of the bars, the grates at the edge of the floor through which a hot breeze constantly flowed. The lights were never off, the dry air never still. First Aid reached again for the team bond, but it was muted, distant. Hot Spot answered him, a dim echo of love and comfort, a cloud of reassurance. But when he tried to send more than a ping the feedback made his fuel pump stutter and stall. 

He sat back, looking up to see if he could spot a jamming device, but the lights hung low and the ceiling was lost in shadow. 

Around noon the Combaticon rotary turned up. First Aid shifted out of his meditative pose and stared hard at the floor. He couldn’t make eye contact, not again. He needed to be small, dull, uninteresting.

“Hungry?” Vortex asked. A hiss and a shower of sparks made First Aid cringe and glance up; Vortex was tapping the energon bars, the tips of his dark fingers terminating in claws. “You look hungry.” 

“Pick on someone your own size,” Windcharger snapped. Vortex ignored him. 

First Aid put his head down, energon rushing as though he was about to transform. 

“All you need to do is ask.” Vortex tapped the bars again. “Don’t you want it?”

“Get scrapped!” Huffer called. 

First Aid tried to keep his optics on the floor, but the sparks were falling and the red visor was fixed completely on him, drawing his gaze. In the next cell over, Beachcomber shifted. 

“No? Your choice.” Vortex turned to face Windcharger as the outer door opened, admitting Swindle and Brawl. Windcharger crouched, defensive, ready. Vortex paused in the glow from the energon bars, his rotors swept down, the biolights on his hip glimmering. “We’ll have that one first.”

Windcharger did not go quietly. First Aid watched, shivering, his frame alive with the need to chase, to fight, to wrench Windcharger out of Brawl’s grip and somehow speed him to safety. 

“Easy there,” Beachcomber whispered, as the door closed on Windcharger and the Combaticons. 

First Aid vented deep, then nodded. "I'm OK," he said. "What will they do to him?"

"Nothing Windcharger can't handle," Beachcomber said. "They’re playing mind games. They’ll rough him up, make it look worse than it is.”

“But they could do anything,” First Aid said. “They-”

“There are rules of conduct,” Beachcomber said. “Even here. Decepticons still consider themselves to be Cybertronians.”

“The Rules of Engagement?” First Aid said. “But Jazz said not to trust in that. He said it was written so long ago, Megatron probably changed his mind a hundred times since then. And he never ratified Cybertron’s involvement in The Galactic Convention on Sentient Rights, the uprising came too soon for the Senate to-”

“Slow down,” Beachcomber said softly. “We’re not exactly new to this, remember? Me and Huffer and Windcharger. We know what to expect.”

Huffer propped himself on his elbow. “I’ve been in ‘con jails that make this look like a hotel. Windcharger’s gonna be fine.”

“But the Combaticons,” First Aid said, and flinched as the lights flickered. 

“Just a power surge,” Huffer said. “Ha! Probably not even that. Probably Swindle outside the door fraggin’ with the lights to make us jumpy.” He flopped on his back. “You need to stop worrying about him, it’s gonna screw you over.”

“Let’s try some circular vents,” Beachcomber said. “We can’t do anything for Windcharger right now, but we can make ourselves as ready as possible for whatever comes next.”

* * *

Windcharger returned an hour later, scuffed and scowling, but First Aid’s scanners could pick up no additional injuries. He flashed a quick brittle smile as he passed the cells, bravado written in the gleam of his optics and the tension of his frame. When Brawl hefted him into his cage, he got to his feet in an instant, and charged the bars. Brawl didn’t flinch.

The bars burnt his paint, and First Aid bit his lip. He wanted nothing more than to go to him, but Windcharger might as well have been on the Moon. Huffer yelled an insult after Brawl’s retreating back, and Beachcomber sighed. 

“What happened?” he asked.

“Mostly talking,” Windcharger said. “The rotary, not me. I got nothing to say.” 

Huffer transformed to vehicle mode, stretching his cables. “They know we don’t know bunk,” he said, and First Aid wondered if the two of them were playing to invisible cameras. “They’re just testing, see if we got any intel before Prime comes smashing through the wall to get us out.”

“Or until Prime gets his hands on some ‘cons,” Windcharger said, and eased himself down onto the floor. “Then it’ll be a straight up hostage swap, just like in the good old days.”

Huffer barked a laugh. “How many times have you been exchanged now?”

“Fifteen,” Windcharger said, as though it was something to be proud of. 

“I’m on seventeen,” Huffer replied. “And that one time they just plain forgot about me.”

First Aid looked at the floor. His hands itched, his core queasy with frustration. Windcharger was hurting, even if he refused to show it, and there was nothing First Aid could to do help. 

“Stay strong,” Beachcomber whispered, and First Aid nodded, but did not look up.

* * *

On the second day they took Huffer. Brawl marched him out, Swindle close behind. Vortex lingered as he passed First Aid’s cell, a smirk on his bare grey face, his clawed fingers glinting in the light from the energon bars. Beachcomber tensed, and First Aid forced himself to look down. 

“I’ve not forgotten about you,” Vortex said quietly, and left.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Windcharger said. “He’s just trying to put the frighteners on you.”

First Aid nodded and swallowed. “What…” he said, and had to cough and start again. “What did he say to you? When they took you away.”

“He asked me questions,” Windcharger said. “Tried to get me talking. That’s what they do, just like in that simulation you had to do with Jazz. They get you talking, and before you know it you’ve let slip what kind of energon Prime has for breakfast and what Bumblebee found behind his back seat last week.” He sniffed. “They unbalance you, his kind. You want my advice? Don’t listen to him.”

“And don’t look at him,” Beachcomber said. “Don’t give him any excuse to be interested in you.”

First Aid nodded his agreement, and shifted to suppress a shiver. 

Windcharger grunted. “Best thing you can be right now is boring.” He rolled onto his back and stretched his arms. “Just don’t worry about it, OK? Prime’s coming for us, you’ll see.”

* * *

But Prime did not come. Huffer came stumbling back, a new crack in his cowl and a bright, feral grin on his face. He winked at Windcharger and jerked a sticky thumb at Brawl’s dented mask. 

“Half rations for you,” Brawl grunted, bowling him into the cage. “Half rations for all of you, and you know who to blame.” 

“Yeah,” Windcharger said when Brawl had gone. “We know exactly who to blame. You OK, Huffer?”

“Did you see that?” Huffer was still grinning. “Clocked him right in the face, he’s gonna be spitting teeth. Almost got away too. Next time I’ll punch his lights out.” 

First Aid sat as still as he could, watching his diagnostics scrolling down his HUD. “What did he mean about rations? They haven’t given us anything since we got here.”

“He wants us to think about fuel,” Beachcomber said. “But we’re not going to.”

“All right,” First Aid agreed, but couldn’t stop himself from asking, “How are your levels?”

“Absolutely fine,” Beachcomber said. “And to make sure they stay fine, I think we should get some rest. Aid, how about you go first?”

* * *

Beachcomber was trying to prepare him. First Aid realised it on waking, the partial defrag having made everything crisper, clearer. Beachcomber was trying to prepare him because it was his turn next.

He couldn't be Huffer, and punch Brawl in the face. He couldn't be Windcharger, laughing at their captors, ignoring the network of scorches on his shoulder and chest. He couldn't be himself either, locking eyes with the Combaticon interrogator, watching fascinated as those claws made sparks on the energon bars.

First Aid vented deep and brought his optics online. The light was the same, the minor aggravations of his cell continued. Beachcomber was in recharge, Huffer snoring. Windcharger was sitting bolt upright, staring at the closed outer door.

"I'm awake," First Aid whispered. "You should try to sleep."

"Don't need to," Windcharger said. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm good," First Aid replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” Windcharger said, idly itching his shoulder.

“I wish-”

“I know,” Windcharger said. “Don’t worry about me, it doesn’t hurt. And I did this to myself, remember?”

“I’m still sorry I can’t help,” First Aid said. He stood slowly, stretching his arms, then his legs, easing the kinks from his cables. It was 10am on the third day, and his frame was more than ready for its morning coolant.

"Don't waste energy," Windcharger said.

"We shouldn't let ourselves seize up," First Aid replied. He moved to the centre of his cell and transformed to alt, then back again. 

"Shh!" Windcharger hissed, and tensed. "Someone's coming."

First Aid froze, forgetting that he should drop to the floor, pretend to be asleep. He needed to be dull, boring, unremarkable, but Vortex had entered the room and was staring at him.

"Good morning," Vortex said, flicking his rotors as he strode over to First Aid's cell.

"Hey, slagger!" Windcharger called. "I got something for you!"

"Having a nice little stretch?" Vortex asked, looking openly up and down First Aid's frame. "Glad to see you're on your feet. Come with me."

"Leave him alone," Windcharger growled, and Huffer echoed his sentiment. Beachcomber sat up, optics wide, and First Aid remembered at last to lower his gaze. He bowed his head, listening to the energon bars fizzle out at Vortex deactivated them.

"This way," he said, stepping back from the open cell and gesturing towards the outer door. "That's it, one foot in front of the other." He reactivated the bars, and First Aid flinched as he lay a hand lightly on the small of his back.

"Don't you touch him," Huffer snarled, and Windcharger yelled, "If you hurt him, I'll tear your spark out! You hear me? I'll tear your spark out and make you eat it!"

First Aid glanced back, and caught Beachcomber's mouthed words: 'Be strong.'

"Your comrades care about you," Vortex said, giving him a little nudge to get him through the door. "They needn't worry, I won't hurt you. We'll be taking the next left, watch the step."

Without the warning First Aid wouldn't have stumbled, but Vortex's assumed kindness was dizzying, and he missed his footing. Vortex caught him, and waited until he was firmly on his feet again before steering him towards a door as dull and unremarkable as First Aid should have been.

The door led to another corridor, a lower ceiling and dimmer lights. Numbered doors led off it, and First Aid looked at them in wonder. Were these all interrogation cells? How could the Combaticons staff all this? There were only five of them.

Vortex stopped them before door eleven, and tapped a code into the keypad. "Praxian filtered or Iaconian double distilled?" he asked.

First Aid frowned, and managed to keep looking at his feet.

Vortex ushered him into the room and gave him a pat on the back. "If you don't tell me, I'll have to guess."

First Aid swallowed. The energon was a lie, it had to be. But he could smell fumes, could almost taste them.

"I'm going to guess... Praxian." Vortex went over to a blank section of wall and drew back a shutter. He retrieved two small cubes and set them on the room's single round table; one was energon, the other coolant. First Aid swallowed again. "Pick a chair," Vortex said. "They're both the same."

After a moment’s inner wrangling First Aid sat down. Compliance was duller than resistance, duller even than just standing there and saying nothing. At least, he had to hope it was.

Vortex brought the other chair around to Aid’s side of the table and sat down. He pushed the cubes towards him. “I hear one of your companions hit Brawl and no-one got any rations. These are yours, you can drink them.”

First Aid’s optics flicked to Vortex’s face, searching for any hint of intention in Vortex’s unmasked expression. He hastily looked down. 

“I’m in charge here,” Vortex said, toying with the cubes. “That makes me responsible for prisoner welfare. I get nothing out of starving you.”

First Aid pressed his mouth tight shut. The fumes rose up, as impossible to ignore as the scale of the rotary, so much larger up close, bigger than Blades, larger even than Springer. 

“They’re not poisoned,” Vortex said. “Here.” He peeled the lid off the coolant and reached for First Aid’s hand. “I know you’ve got a diagnostic probe in your index finger. Why not find out for yourself?” He turned Aid’s hand over, his own fingers blunt now, the claws stashed away. 

Condensation beaded on the glass, and First Aid tried to think his way clear of the thirst. His hand tingled, the sensors activated by the push of Vortex’s energy field. He resisted the constriction of his throat, and tried not to taste the tang of the energon fumes. 

For a long moment Vortex did nothing but loosely hold his hand and look at him. First Aid waited for him to pounce, to reveal his true intentions, but nothing happened. 

“Go on,” Vortex said quietly, encouraging. Shivering, First Aid transformed the tip of his finger. The coolant was cold and pure, a trace of additives, a little sweetener. The energon was a higher grade than he’d imagined, and again was free from impurities and toxins. Vortex produced a small cloth and carefully dried the probe, then slowly let go of First Aid’s hand.

“See,” he said, “it’s safe.”

First Aid took the coolant first. He should have had the energon, but he was thirsty and warm, and the chill of the liquid helped him rediscover his resolve. When he finished the small cube, he was surprised to see Vortex replace it with another. Quickly he drank it, and the energon, before either could be taken away.

“Feeling better?” Vortex said. “You can adjust the chair, make yourself comfortable.” He leaned an elbow on the table, and propped his head in his hand. “I’m not going to interrogate you,” he said. “There’s no point.”

Keeping his mouth resolutely closed, First Aid couldn’t help but look up.

“You _do_ have intel,” Vortex conceded. “Confidential medical records, secrets about Defensor, about your team.” His rotors bobbed as he shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s not the right intel. You’re not close enough to Prime, you have nothing Megatron wants, nothing Onslaught needs.”

“Then why am I here?” First Aid said, and wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

Vortex smiled. “If I’d given you full rations and sweetened coolant while your companions got only mid-grade and water, you wouldn’t have taken them.”

First Aid blinked. “You can’t… You… That isn’t right, you should treat us all equally.”

“No I shouldn’t,” Vortex said. “Huffer punched Brawl in the head, Windcharger broke one of my tail rotors. And as for Beachcomber, he’s been attempting a wireless hack on our security since you arrived.” He smiled. “Why should I treat you all the same?”

“I… This is for good behaviour?” First Aid knew he should stop speaking, but he couldn’t help himself.

Vortex’s smile faded. “You make me wish I could end the war right now,” he said, then straightened, the smile returning. “Time’s up. Do you want another coolant before I take you back?”

First Aid stared, then slowly he nodded. Another coolant would help bring his temperature down and stop his fans from engaging. Another coolant now could be the difference between optimal and sub-optimal functionality later. It could be the difference between collapse through overheating, and escape. 

Vortex watched him drink, then escorted him back to his cell, an arm looped lightly around his waist, a hand on his hip.

* * *

There was a bunk in First Aid’s cell when he returned. Not only that, but the mesh of the walls was dimmer, thicker, almost opaque. The cells were still cages, but bunks had been installed in all of them - or transformed up from hidden areas beneath the floor. First Aid couldn’t fail to notice that his was the only one with padding. 

Brawl arrived as soon as Vortex left, bringing a ration for each of them - First Aid included. He drank his quickly so he didn’t have to explain why he was leaving it, and curled up on the bed. He wanted to transform, to sit in alt a while and think. But the floorspace was too small with the bunk in the way, so he lay on his side and tried to think his way through Vortex’s words. 

“Hey, Aid!” Huffer yelled, and First Aid realised they’d been trying to get his attention for a while. Brawl had gone, and the lights were a little dimmer, but far brighter than the cell Vortex had taken him to.

“Are you OK?” Aid asked, and Huffer went quiet. 

“Are _you_ OK?” Beachcomber echoed. “Did he… You don’t look hurt.”

“I’m fine,” First Aid said. “It was mind games, that’s all.”

“That’s the spirit!” Windcharger said, and Huffer said, “You better not be thinking about it. That’s how he gets in, he gets you thinking. Think about something else.”

“I am,” First Aid lied. “I know, I remember.”

“Good,” Beachcomber said, his optics just visible through the fuzz of pink. 

* * *

The afternoon passed with word games. Beachcomber insisted they play, bringing in Windcharger and Huffer, keeping it fast and active. First Aid could see what he was doing, and it was effective. He had to focus on the game, no time to think, to let Vortex’s words sear a path in his mind. 

Swindle came as the afternoon turned to evening, taking Beachcomber away. Windcharger and Huffer kept up the game for a minute, until the two of them disagreed and it devolved into a tired argument. First Aid sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at his hands. He transformed his right index finger and extended the probe. Then retracted it again, as a shimmer worked its way through his energy field. 

An hour passed, and First Aid let his thoughts drift. He lay down, turned over, rolled back. The bunk was comfortable, the padding brand new and smelling of the plastic it had clearly been wrapped in. He focused on his vents, then turned his fans up high and mumbled a complaint about how warm it was. 

It wasn’t, the temperature was well within acceptable bounds, but Huffer repeated the complaint anyway, and soon the three of them were lying with their fans turned up against the phantom warmth. 

First Aid wished the walls were opaque. He wished Beachcomber would come back. He wished for sleep, and dozed a while on a cyclical memory of Vortex stroking his palm, Vortex leaning close and looking at him with such gravity for that one long moment. _You make me wish I could end the war right now._

A clank as the bolts of the outer door were thrown, and First Aid scrambled to his feet. His fuel pump thudded, his spark whirled. He craned to see Beachcomber through the wide open mesh of his cell door.

“I’m back,” Beachcomber said, giving him the thumbs up. He let Brawl push him into his cell, and calmly settled cross-legged in the middle of the floor. 

“Don’t see what you’re so happy about,” Brawl said. “Your Prime hasn’t come for you. Reckon he just plain forgot.” He went to each of the control pads, and typed in a command. The walls between the cells thickened, until all First Aid could see of Beachcomber was a vague shadow topped by a blotch of blue. 

“Maybe he just doesn’t care,” Vortex said to Brawl, appearing at the outer door. “Beachcomber _did_ fail to pass on essential intelligence about the electrum pool, remember? And what use are the minibots?” 

“Not much,” Brawl said, giving them a contemptuous look. “Can’t even throw a punch right.”

“I nearly knocked your lights out, you moron!” Huffer yelled, while Beachcomber softly called for calm, and First Aid backed up towards the rear wall of his cell. 

When Vortex left without another word, First Aid sank slowly to the floor and refused to acknowledge his disappointment. 

* * *

That night really was too warm. It began with a whine low beneath the floor, then a sick little crunch, and the warmish air blowing in through the vents rose by fifteen degrees. 

“Aircon’s broke,” Windcharger commented. 

“Yeah, ‘broke’,” Huffer responded, speaking up over the chorus of speeding fans. “ _I’ll_ break _them_ , stupid Combaticons.”

“Time to find your centre,” Beachcomber said. “Focus on the spin of your fans, the movement of air.”

Huffer’s reply was clearly sarcastic, but too low for First Aid to catch it. Windcharger snickered, and it sounded forced. First Aid sprawled to increase his surface area and expose all of his vents. The temp increased another five degrees, another ten. It was night outside, it should be cold, but the air temp went up by a further four degrees before it stopped. 

It _was_ night, wasn’t it? First Aid checked his chronometer, then checked it again. It was noon, an entire day had passed since the fake interrogation. He struggled to see where it had gone. The word game, the dozing, Brawl’s irregular visits to check something on the console. 

First Aid focused on his fans. 

“Good job Spike didn’t get captured along with us,” Windcharger said. “It’s hot enough in here to fry him.”

“We’d have kept him safe,” Beachcomber said, and First Aid wondered how.

At least the heat was a distraction. A grumbling Brawl arrived with cans of coolant, and decanted them into shatter-proof plastic cubes. He shoved one through a hatch in each of the cell doors, his own fans roaring, and stomped off without a word.

“Does it still look like sabotage?” Windcharger asked, and Huffer told him to shut up.

It was evening before the airflow began to cool, but then only by ten degrees. First Aid was hot and tired, and a jittery nervousness had begun to make itself felt. It wasn’t new, it had been lurking in the background since the first flood of panic had faded in the aftermath of their capture. It wasn’t unfamiliar either. It was the feeling of needing to take action, the emotional baseline he relied on when preparing for a mission. He’d experienced it since he could remember, had harnessed it and used it. 

He couldn’t use it now. Now it was a burden, another aggravation to go with the lights and the noise and the heat. 

“Everybody up!” a voice yelled, as the outer door slid open. Onslaught strode in, Brawl and Vortex directly behind him. “Stand with your back to your cell door, your hands behind you. Move!”

“Hostage exchange,” Windcharger whispered, and First Aid wanted to believe him. He lined up as Onslaught had ordered, and tried to see Beachcomber through the lattice wall. He heard three cell doors deactivate, heard three sets of cuffs clipped into place. 

“Sit tight,” Vortex whispered, so close behind him he jumped and caught his thumb on the energon bars. “I’ll come back for you.”

First Aid gritted his teeth, but waited for the outer door to shut before bringing his hands around to assess the damage. It wasn’t bad, nothing his nanites couldn’t fix, but the burn still stung and when he wiped away the scorch he could see bare metal. 

He resumed the position Onslaught had instructed, and waited. The air grew hotter again, the breeze weaker. Something deep in the building gave a clunk, and a sound that had been on the edge of hearing ceased. 

First Aid choked down the hope. It _wasn’t_ Hot Spot, it couldn’t be Blades. His team were a distant, muted presence. They were thinking of him, hurting for him. He couldn’t reach them, but he could see them, dimly. They weren’t here. It was mechanical failure, that was all. 

“Well aren’t you the good little Autobot?” Vortex said, his footsteps clear as he re-entered the room. “Do I really need to cuff you?”

The bars deactivated; First Aid turned slowly around. He moved his hands in front of him, and flinched as Vortex grabbed his wrist.

“Did the bars get you?” He opened First Aid’s palm, inspecting his thumb. “I’ve got something for that.” 

“It’s fine,” First Aid said, but Vortex had him by the arm and was leading him out of the cells, out of the building. The sun blazed down, and First Aid shuttered his optics to let his sensors recalibrate. 

Vortex slowed, leading him over gritty hot tarmac and into the slightly cooler shade of another building. Inside was cold and dark, but First Aid’s fans hardly slowed. He strained to hear a sign of the others, to know that Vortex wasn’t dragging him off somewhere alone. 

But Vortex already had. 

“This way,” he said, nudging a swing-door open and steering First Aid inside. “Take a seat, I’m sure you know where we are.”

“Medbay,” First Aid responded, and it could have been nowhere else. He sat on the edge of the nearest stool, hating himself for not immediately sprinting for the exit. Vortex was faster than him, larger than him. Vortex would catch him, and First Aid was sure that whatever good will he’d managed to accrue would evaporate. 

Not good will, First Aid reminded himself. Mind games. 

“How about this?” Vortex said, holding up a small pot of salve. First Aid scanned the label - Cybertronian nanite paste, manufactured in Iacon. It was new, a product of Shockwave’s factories. 

“It’s not necessary,” he said. “It’ll be fine by itself.” 

Vortex took his hand again and dotted the paste over the burn. “Now it’ll be fine faster,” he said. “Hmm, isn’t that better? Even your energy field’s starting to settle.”

First Aid glanced up. Vortex was giving him that serious look again. He screwed the lid on the pot, and tucked it in First Aid’s uninjured hand. “No-one’s going to miss it,” he said. 

“Why? What is all this?”

“Because,” Vortex replied. “Come on, I should get you back to the others before Onslaught starts to wonder what I’ve done with you.”

* * *

His new cell had proper walls, opaque grey metal with a heavy steel door. Energon bars crackled in the upper half, providing a view of the opposite wall. 

Vortex took him past the other cells before locking him in, giving him a second or two at each door. Beachcomber looked relieved to see him, Windcharger raised a smile, and Huffer balled a fist in solidarity. First Aid tried to look stoic and unfazed, his hands clasped tightly around the little pot. 

There were two empty cells between Beachcomber’s and his own. No, Aid thought as he passed them. Not cells, none of these were. They were storage rooms, weapons lockers. Empty now, and strong, but they weren’t designed for holding prisoners. 

That fact explained Brawl, who wandered in just as Vortex left. Heavily armed, he clattered as he walked, and jangled as he sat in the corridor’s single chair. He glared at the doors, and set up a small holographic projector. The screen fixed itself to the left of his visor, the audio must have had an internal feed. It was silent, but if he strained, First Aid could just make out the opening credits of ‘The A Team’. 

It wasn’t long before Beachcomber began to tap and scrape the wall. It was a muted and quiet, but the morse code was easily recognisable. 

‘ _Sitrep_ ,’ Beachcomber requested. Then, _‘R U OK?_ ’

‘ _Fine_ ,’ First Aid replied with his own series of taps and scrapes. ‘ _Caught thumb on bars, no harm done_.’

“There’s gonna be harm done if you don’t shut the frag up,” Brawl growled. “Don’t think I can’t hear you.”

“And don’t think we can’t hear _you_ ,” Windcharger retorted. “You vent like a steamroller. Can’t you keep it down?”

“Gimme one reason,” Brawl said. “Just one fraggin’ reason.”

“Your face is a reason,” Huffer snarled. “It’s like it’s magnetic, my fist just can’t resist.”

“Huffer, please,” Beachcomber said, but Brawl was already standing up. First Aid craned to see as the Combaticon approached Huffer’s cell. 

“I’ll give you one more chance,” Brawl said in a booming low growl. “You settle down and shut the hell up, or I’m calling Tex and he’s gonna take your little medic away and you won’t never know what happened to him.”

“ _Please!_ ” Beachcomber hissed, and it was clear who he was pleading to. 

Huffer and Windcharger grew quiet. Brawl looked from cell to cell, then humphed and returned to his chair. 

* * *

The night brought dreams, fever bright and heated. A chaos of fragments, they seemed in sleeping to make a coherent whole, but disintegrated as First Aid struggled awake. He’d dreamed of Vortex, part memory, part something else. A lingering touch, that hand on his back, those hidden claws smoothing a cloth over his fingers. It was mixed in with older dreams, with fantasies he thought he’d forgotten - had tried to forget. He rolled over on the bunk, and wrapped himself tighter in the thermo-regulation blanket. 

The dream fragments burst in his conscious mind; those claws between his legs, grey lips at his throat. He clenched his teeth and fought not to feel the ghost of it in his sensor net. In his dream he’d lay helpless, pinned and spread. Awake he felt empty, and he cringed for the shame of it. 

At least his panels were still closed.

He stood, slow and quiet, and stretched to help disperse the charge. In the corridor, Blast Off was sitting in Brawl’s chair, reading from a data pad. He looked up, and First Aid darted back. The edge of the bunk caught his leg, and he stumbled. 

“Quiet in there,” Blast Off said, and First Aid sat back down. This new rule, no talking, no noise, it had to be a part of the mind games. 

At least it was cool in the new cell. Cool and oddly comfortable. The bunk was a regular Cybertronian sleeping platform, the padding the same as in his old cell. As he went to adjust the blanket, his foot caught something underneath and he bent down. 

Two plastic cubes of coolant shared the space with a cube of energon and a little box. He pulled out the box. In it was a brand new brush, and a small can of oil. He pushed it back and lay the blanket so it covered the side of the bunk. 

He sat down, careful and slightly dizzy. He doubted the others had gifts under their bunks. He tried to remember what he’d seen the day before, but he’d been so fixed on seeing their faces, on showing them that he was fine, that he hadn’t looked for the details of their cells. He replayed the memories, combing the incidental data. It was inconclusive, but he saw no evidence for blankets, or even padding on their bunks. 

Vortex had given him luxury. Comparative luxury, he reminded himself. And not even that. This was part of the mind games. The extra fuel, the salve for his hand. They were tools to kick-start his thoughts, to help open him to manipulation. 

But he could change that. They could be _his_ tools, keeping him healthy and sharp, protecting him from manipulation. 

He reached for a cube of coolant and downed it in one. 

* * *

First Aid watched as the others were taken away, one by one. They came back tireder, grimmer, a little more dented in Huffer’s case, a little quieter in Beachcomber’s. He tried to make eye contact as Brawl and Swindle marched them past his cell, and aside from Windcharger he managed it. 

“Your turn,” Brawl said, as the cell door swung open. “Hurry up. Turn around, hands behind you.”

First Aid held still as Brawl tightened the cuffs, then jolted as the tank smacked him on the aft. 

“Get moving!” Brawl kicked the door shut behind them, not bothering to stop and lock it. He gave Aid a shove. “Not that way, go left. Pick your feet up.”

For a moment First Aid thought they were going all the way to the other building, but Brawl turned him down a bright narrow corridor, and unfastened the cuffs. “Second door on your left. Get!” 

The door was motion activated, sliding aside as Aid approached. Brawl waited in the hall behind him, swinging the restraints. 

“Don’t be shy,” Vortex said. “Come take a seat, it’s OK.”

Whatever the room had been, it had been recently cleared. Scuff marks showed where shelves used to stand, and the floor was worn with a pattern of activity that had nothing to do with the simple table and two chairs which now occupied the space. Vortex was sitting on the edge of the table, his rotors at an angle suggesting anticipation. His mask was off, and he wore a smile that First Aid knew he ought to run from. 

Slowly, and with his arms crossed over his chest, First Aid took the offered chair. He sat prim and upright, and stared at the tabletop. 

“I can’t keep you forever,” Vortex said. “Sooner or later someone’s going to get captured, and then I’ll have to give you back.”

First Aid focused on the metal, watching the reflection of Vortex’s biolights. 

“But you’re here now,” the interrogator said. “Tell me, did you enjoy Springer’s last visit to Earth?”

First Aid nearly choked. “Did I what?” His optics flickered as they rebooted, and his hands balled to fists.

“Did you enjoy it?” Vortex said. “You know you were caught on camera.”

“What? I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Vortex pressed the back of his hand to First Aid’s helm. “Getting warm,” he commented. “Would you like some coolant?”

“I… no. What is all this?”

Vortex smiled kindly, so at odds with his words. “Springer’s last visit to Earth; you were caught on camera. Reflector was going to offer the tape to Swindle, but I didn’t want to see you humiliated in front of the entire Decepticon army. So I bought it.”

First Aid fought to find his centre, a glut of coolant rushing loud through his lines. 

“I didn’t show it to anyone,” Vortex said. “But on a personal note, I will say it made for very pleasant viewing.”

“It didn’t,” First Aid said, as he scrabbled through his databanks for the files. “There is no tape.”

“I could show it to you?” Vortex suggested. He swung onto the floor and grabbed the spare chair. He lodged it next to the one Aid was sitting on, and sat with his back to the table. Aid reined in his EM field, and tried to work through the files, sifting through each blurry frantic scene for anyone who could have been watching. 

“It was quite a show,” Vortex whispered. “You were gorgeous. And of course Springer’s so big and commanding. It’s no wonder you couldn’t resist.”

First Aid held himself still; his hands were shaking. “You’re making it up,” he said, uncrossing his arms and gripping the edge of the table. “There’s no tape, you just heard a rumour.”

“Remember the cliffs a four mile drive from the Ark? Where the woods meet a winding stream, and the trees are as tall as your Prime?” Vortex gave a little flicker of his energy field. “It looks so secluded.”

Just rumours, First Aid thought. Just rumours and hearsay. And Vortex could have been at that location himself another time, or seen footage of the area as they planned an attack on Autobot HQ. 

“I love the way you touched him,” Vortex continued. “That thing you did with his rotors. Very nice. Very… thoughtful.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” First Aid said, forcing himself to look Vortex in the eye. 

The rotary smiled, and turned his blades until they caught the light. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said. “When they come to take you back, you can have the tape. If we weren’t at war, you could have anything you wanted.”

First Aid glared, so tense the shaking had spread to his arms. “What do you want?”

Vortex pressed closer, a foot at the back of First Aid’s chair, a hand over his wrists. “I want to make you squirm in ecstasy,” he whispered. “I want to see that flicker in your optics as you overload. I want to put that secret little smile on your face and feel your spark surge in your chest.” His claws extended, a snick of moving metal and they were a cage over First Aid’s fists. His other hand had reached the back of Aid’s neck, and was slowly stroking. 

First Aid swallowed and tried to move, but the chairs were locked together and the table was too close. 

Vortex laughed softly, his energy field lapping up and down First Aid’s side. “You enjoy rotaries, don’t you? You enjoyed Springer… I know you enjoy Blades. I’m a combiner too, remember? I understand what it’s like, I know how fierce that need can be.” He vented softly over First Aid’s audial, and his next words were so very quiet, but he might as well have been screaming. “I know you once told Groove in utmost confidence that you’d been dreaming about me.”

First Aid startled as if struck. He shook his head, tried to free his hands. “How did you... That’s not… Please, just... “

“You told him you dreamed I chased you and caught you. You dreamed I pinned you against the wall of a canyon and had my way with you, and you woke up on the brink of overload.”

“That… Primus, that’s not-”

“Ravage was there when you spoke to Groove,” Vortex said. “It’s amazing what intel finds its way to me.” 

“You know you can’t do this,” First Aid said. “You can’t say things like that, you shouldn’t. This is wrong.”

“Why can’t I?” Vortex asked, that evil smile of his making First Aid shiver inside. “This is war, we could be dead tomorrow.”

“Stop, just stop.”

But Vortex continued. “You enjoy rotaries. You nearly came at the thought of me inside you. You came for Springer, what was it, three times in quick succession? I can give you that, more than that.”

“Let me go!” First Aid cried, and tried to swing himself sideways off the chair, to wrench his hands free. Vortex gripped his wrist, the chairs clattering as he stood. Aid backed away, and hit the wall. Vortex pursued, caging him as strong and secure as Springer had ever done. 

“I don’t think so,” Vortex whispered, touching their helms together, so close Aid could see his optics under the visor. Then Vortex ran a claw along the inside rim of a shoulder tyre, making First Aid twist. It was all the leverage Vortex needed, and he pressed his advantage, clawed hands beneath Aid’s knees, hauling him up. First Aid yelped, and couldn’t help but cling, his thighs tight to Vortex’s waist, his hands braced on the wall. Vortex held him close, his energy field blazing in triumph, and Aid steeled himself against the breaching of his interface covers. 

Vortex grinned his evil grin, and bent to lightly kiss his throat. "I’m not going to force you,” he said. “Not unless you want me to. I would chase you, if we weren’t at war. I’d show you how we used to do it, back on Cybertron. You would want for nothing, I’d give you anything, take you anywhere. Everywhere. _Have_ you everywhere.” He nipped the edge of a fuel line and Aid shuddered in mingled terror and terrible anticipation. “But we are at war, so I can’t chase you. I can’t hunt you down and bring your dream to life like Springer tried to do for you. But I can have you here,” he said. “If you’re good, if you’re quiet. I can have you and no-one need ever find out. You were so very quiet for Springer, weren’t you? I love those little sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the way you squirmed. I want to make you squirm, see you stretch to fit me. I can feel you heating, I know you’re aching inside, I know you want to be filled. If I put my hand between your legs, would your covers be unlocked for me? Would they slide aside and show how hard you are, how hot and wet and needy?”

Aid whimpered, and Vortex laughed low and warm. “You want me to take you,” he growled, and First Aid could do nothing but brace himself between the rotary and the wall. “You want me to plug into you and hack you and bring your covers open so I can sink deep inside you. I want to feel you, every part of you. I want us joined cable and cord and spark, and ah!” His engine revved, his energy field crackling. “I want to feel _that_ again, that surge that’s making you shudder. I want your mouth around my fingers, my claws dancing on your spark. I want to lick your corona as you overload and taste everything there is of you. There it is again, you’re so hot now, so beautiful. I love the way you shiver, the shape of your lips as you try not to moan. The way your thighs are quivering, the heat shimmering off your panels.”

First Aid tensed against the growing charge, the need a tight and urgent coil. The terror was unrelenting, surging with his energy field. Wrong, so wrong, but his spark whirled and the fear and the heat and the dread anticipation turned his ignition like nothing else. 

He shuttered his optics, and Vortex nuzzled his audial, and kissed the corner of his lips. “I understand you,” he hissed. “I want to soak you in an oil bath and lick your nodes until you melt. Mmm, that’s it, let it come. Primus, I want you. I want to take you here and now and leave you strutless and yearning. I want to tease you every step of the way back to your cell until your panels come loose and your cord is straining. I want to hold you…. yes, that’s good, frag you’re hot. I want pin you tight against the doors to their cells, one by one, and make you overload again and again. Oh frag, that’s it, just let it happen.”

First Aid’s grip increased, his optics tightly shuttered. He shuddered in the wake of his climax, his fingers scraping the wall and his equipment soaked beneath his covers. “You shouldn’t,” he panted. “You can’t… Just let me go!”

“You needed that,” Vortex whispered, his energy field flaring wildly. He carried Aid to the table and sat him on the edge. “Perfect,” he said, tilting Aid’s face as though he was about to press their lips together. 

Aid slumped on his hands, the overload still echoing in his spark, throbbing through his empty valve. 

“Look at you, so helpless. You like being helpless, don’t you?”

Aid covered his face with his hands. Coolant rushed, and the charge crackled, and he pressed his knees together, his valve aching as he waited for the touch of those claws.

“Have I worn you out?” Vortex said. He lifted Aid again, gently this time. “You should rest.”

First Aid kept his face covered the entire way back to his cell. His was the closest to the outer door, but still he cringed at the look on Brawl’s face, at the thought that Beachcomber or Windcharger or Huffer might glimpse him quivering in the interrogator’s arms, might hear his fans whirring fast and know what had happened.

Vortex lay him on the padded bunk, and First Aid stiffened. It would be crueller to take him here, to spread him where the others couldn’t help but listen. He drew his knees up, but Vortex just covered him with the blanket and told him to sleep.

How could he sleep? The wrongness of it was staggering. His core ached, and he listened to Vortex’s retreating footsteps, Brawl’s bored yawn. He wrapped his arms around his knees, and longed to open his panels, to bring himself a little relief. He threw off the blanket and dug around under the bunk. He used his probe to test the dregs of the energon, the coolant, a surge of hope flaring in his chest. But there was no trace of any aphrodisiac he could recognise. No trace of anything more than the expected constituents of good quality coolant and fuel.

* * *

First Aid slept poorly, waking startled and wary at every sound. His dreams bled into conscious thought, poisoning his spark and making his valve ache and his cord push painfully against the inside of its cover. He tried to seize control, to turn the dream to fantasy, to bend it to his will and force an outcome that didn’t make him broken, monstrous, wrong. 

He was grateful for the distance between his cell and Beachcomber’s, the enforced solitude. 

Brawl shuffled in the corridor, and First Aid tried to use his sounds to work out what the others could hear. Would they know he hadn’t slept well? Would they guess that something had happened between himself and Vortex?

He pressed his face to the bunk and tried to clear his mind. Vortex would be back. Or he’d be dragged away again, and Primus, he didn’t want to think what would happen then. 

He couldn’t think about it, his temp would rise again, his fans would turn faster, louder. He grit his teeth and made himself take deep, slow vents. Maybe it would be better if Vortex did come for him, if he took advantage of First Aid’s glitch. If he took his pleasure and was satisfied, would Aid be able to ask for something in return? Better fuel for the others, better treatment. He could ask to see them, to tend their wounds. 

And they would wonder how he’d done it. 

Beachcomber had known Vortex was interested in him. Windcharger too. They’d warned him, and he hadn’t listened. The thrill had been too much to resist. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Brawl demanded, and First Aid cringed. The tank threw open the hatch in the door and shoved a cube of coolant through. “Are you ill or something?”

“Aid, are you all right?” Beachcomber called. 

“Shut up!” Brawl yelled. He sneered at Aid. “You got a virus or something? You look ill. What’s wrong with you?”

A virus? Maybe he did. A heat virus, a charge amplifier - something to explain how he’d overloaded so easily at Vortex’s words. But his diagnostics were clear, his internal prompts suggesting masturbation as the easiest route to settling his systems. “No,” he said, his voice loud so Beachcomber could hear. “No… Bad dreams, that’s all. I’m not ill.”

Brawl gave him a look. “Drink your coolant,” he snapped, and shut the hatch.

* * *

First Aid tried to dream of rescue. Lying curled on the bunk, he pictured Hot Spot tearing the door off its hinges, Blades rushing in to sweep him into a tight hug and spirit him away. He conjured thoughts of Optimus routing the Combaticons, clearing a path for their escape. 

But as soon as his thoughts drifted the fantasy changed. Charge rose, and he fidgeted, the blanket falling to the floor, his arms flung above his head. Vortex’s energy field enveloped him, pushed into him, a phantom cord that left him empty, hungry. His friends were so close, he could feel the impact of each footfall, but Vortex had him pressed into a corner and they never came close enough to see. 

“Says he’s not ill,” a voice grumbled, and First Aid came awake in an instant. He rolled off the bunk, scrambling to take a defensive pose. His fans were roaring, his limbs like rubber. 

“See,” Brawl said. “He’s all shivering. Told you he’s sick.” He stood at the door, a sneer on his unmasked face, Vortex leaning against the doorframe beside him. 

“He’s just scared,” Vortex said, taking a step into the cell. His proximity was like a kick to the vitals, and First Aid hissed. 

“What’s going on in there?” Windcharger yelled. “Get the hell away from him!”

“Come on,” Vortex said. “Can you get up?”

First Aid shot him as stern a glare as he could manage, and hauled himself to his feet. _I’m fine_ , he tried to say, but his vocaliser spit static, and he found himself coughing. 

“What have you done to him?” Huffer demanded, and Windcharger called, “Aid! Aid what did they do?”

“Do I gotta call Hook?” Brawl said. “You know Ons ain’t gonna be pleased.”

Vortex shook his head. “No, I’ll deal with this.” He wrapped a clawed hand around First Aid’s arm. “Can you walk, or do I have to carry you?”

First Aid responded by taking a stiff step towards the door. Vortex followed him from the cell and steered him toward the exit. First Aid looked back, trying to catch a glimpse of blue optics through the other cell doors. 

“Aid!” Beachcomber called, as Huffer and Windcharger kept up their shouting, but their voices were lost as the main door closed. 

Vortex snickered, and Aid yelped as the interrogator swept him off his feet. 

“Stop it! What are you-”

“What do you think?” Vortex said. “Mmm, you’re so warm. Did I do this to you? I watched you toss and turn all night.”

“Put me down,” First Aid said. “You know I’m not ill. Why do you think this is OK?”

“Why do I need to think it’s OK?” Vortex replied, his energy field rippling with amusement. He turned down the corridor towards the makeshift interrogation cell, then turned abruptly left. “I _don’t_ think it’s OK,” he said. “I don’t care if it’s OK. It doesn’t matter if it’s OK.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” First Aid tried to squirm out of his grip, but Vortex held him tight. 

“I mean what I said.” Vortex bounded up a short staircase, and around another corner. An automatic door opened, and First Aid craned to see where they were now. “I don’t care whether your moral code says this isn’t OK,” Vortex said. “Autobot morality is a cage.”

The room was small, some kind of meeting room or rest room with tables and chairs. Vortex sat First Aid on the edge of the nearest table, and the door panel flashed red as the lock engaged behind them. He shuffled back, trying to get the space to lurch away, but Vortex grabbed his knees and pulled him close again, exerting the slightest pressure to indicate that they should part. 

“Do you want me to force you?” Vortex said. “I will if you ask. You’re so hot and sweet, I bet you taste as good as you look.”

First Aid pushed at his wrists. “You need to stop.”

“Really?” Vortex smiled that cruel, predatory smile and fixed Aid with a look of such focused and undivided interest that his energy field couldn’t help but flare. “You know you’re the prisoner here. I can do whatever I want to you, and no-one need ever find out. Was that another little crackle? Your interface circuits must be on fire.” He pressed forward, and First Aid pulled his hands from Vortex’s wrists to support himself. “You don’t have to tell them,” Vortex whispered. “They don’t have to know how the heat is rolling off you, how you clung to me and overloaded in my arms at the thought of me screwing you in the cells.”

“You don’t have to-” First Aid began, but Vortex cut him off. 

“I want to,” he said. “And I don’t care what moral objections your pre-loaded programming throws up. You must be melting by now, I saw how often your hands strayed to your covers last night, how many times you stopped yourself.”

“You shouldn’t have been watching.”

“So? And now you’re shivering. I wonder, if I put my fingertips just here, if I could spread your pretty thighs.”

“Don’t!” But First Aid had no leverage, and his valve clenched on nothing as his legs came open. He panted for air, tried to find somewhere to look that didn’t fill him with shame.

“No-one ever need know,” Vortex said. “I’ll be like it never happened.” He slid his hands up the insides of First Aid’s thighs, then pulled him abruptly to the edge of the table. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? You want the dream, the thrill, the pleasure without the consequences.” He pressed his palm to the overheated covers. “You can have it. We can say this isn’t real, this never happened. You can open here and now, and frag I can feel your field ripple each time I mention it. You can open for me, and you can have your dream, and that’s what it will stay.”

“I can’t,” First Aid said, but he’d slid so far his back was on the table, and Vortex was leaning over him, so large and strong and dangerous. Those claws traced the edges of his panel and his cord surged against the inside of its cover. 

“You can,” Vortex insisted. “And do you really have a choice? When you’re lying here so charged and helpless. Who could blame you for letting me take what I want? They’ll think I threatened you.” He grinned, his grip tightening. “And I can, if you want? I can tell you that you have to open to me, you have to let me take you for the lives of your companions. I can tell you that the consequences of your refusal will be dire.”

First Aid writhed, hands scrambling for the edge of the table, hips bucking. 

“No-one can blame you,” Vortex whispered, letting a little of his weight settle on First Aid’s chest. “I overpowered you, you couldn’t save yourself.” He reached for First Aid’s hands, gathering them both into one of his, pinning them above his head. His engine purred and he began to stroke First Aid’s frame, teasing hidden sensors with the grating thrill of his energy field. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried.” His touches moved progressively lower, his energy field probing, pulsing. 

“Please!” First Aid cried, as his cord leaked and his valve ached. “Please, you’ll have to…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but his spark chose that moment to flare and his EM field erupted in crackling. 

“I’ll have to force you?” Vortex growled, holding him down, running his claws around the seals of First Aid’s interface covers. “I’ll have to wriggle inside, just like this, and… ah!” A clasp gave way, and First Aid wanted to hide his face as his cord sprang to full pressure between them. Vortex’s palm ghosted over the sensors, then his hand moved lower. “I wonder if this one will be just as easy,” he said, and First Aid tensed as a claw tip edged its way between the overlapping seals. It flicked and the clasp opened, and First Aid moaned. 

“So gorgeous,” Vortex commented, his fingers transforming and sliding blunt through the wetness. “I want to taste you,” he said. “Do I need to tie you down, or will you be good for me?”

First Aid writhed, and Vortex clearly came to a conclusion, because he spent a moment wrapping First aid’s fingers around the lip of the table. “Keep them there,” he warned. 

Aid shivered anew as Vortex knelt to suckle his anterior node, fingers stroking the entrance to his valve. He gripped the table as his climax built, and shuddered close to sobbing as Vortex drew back to let the charge slowly ebb. When Vortex wrapped his lips around First Aid’s cord, his spark whirled and his valve clenched hard, and he rode the waves of overload, strutless and quivering. 

After, Vortex kissed him and drew his legs apart again, and First Aid whined at the slow probing stroke of the rotary’s fingers. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be happening. It _wasn’t_ happening, he decided. It was a figment of his imagination, an extension of his dreams, his glitch. The taste of his arousal on the interrogator’s lips, the urgent pulsing of his anterior node, he had invented it. 

Vortex kissed him deeper, his fingers working faster, almost as thick as a spike. First Aid whimpered and dimmed his optics, and tried to tell himself the lack of clarity was evidence that he was hallucinating. But the snick of Vortex’s cover opening was all too clear. 

Squirming, First Aid let his thighs be drawn wider, his aft tilted up. His valve clenched at the press of Vortex’s cord, and he vented hard, waiting for the stretch, the thrill, the pain perhaps, and wouldn’t he deserve to hurt? This was so very wrong. 

“Relax,” Vortex whispered, and edged forward with little thrusts that made First Aid arch to meet him. By the time the rotary finally filled him, he was all but spent, and it felt so unreal. 

He thrust up, his knees hooked over Vortex’s arms, his valve pulsing in parallel to his corona. He couldn’t dull the violent flare of his energy field, spurred on by his core, nor the way he reached for his anterior node, stroking himself to speed up the charge. 

“Did I say you could?” Vortex purred, thrusting hard and leaning back a little to give Aid space to touch himself. 

Tired, First Aid lasted longer than he otherwise would, and made no objection when Vortex lifted him and pressed him to the wall. He looped his arms around the rotary’s neck. It wasn’t real, it was OK. He could grab the tips of his rotor blades and run his thumb along the sensor-laden leading edge with only a shadow of the guilt and shame. It was fine to squirm and moan, and invite - demand - a deep, long kiss while the fluids dripped and the cord stretched him wide in a slow and unrelenting rhythm. 

It was good to let it build, to use his tiredness to drift dreamily on the edge of overload until he couldn’t take it any more and whispered his needs in an urgent haze of static. 

Vortex held him tight and took him rough and fast, and he could almost believe this was the dream that had plagued him all those years ago. The fantasy his subconscious had built from fascination and fear, that had risen unbidden in his mind so many times as he brought himself to completion and that had terrified him in its intensity, shamed him so badly he’d had to confide in someone. 

“Harder,” he whispered, and Vortex indulged him, his shoulder tyres catching on the wall, his paint scuffing and scratching. He held on as Vortex pounded him, as he linked them by cables in an expression of intimacy that left First Aid reeling. As he synched the cycle of pleasure to bring them to a simultaneous overload. 

On the cusp Vortex held him still, the interface bearing a thrilling trace of his adoration and pleasure and awe. It was too much, and First Aid threw up his firewalls, appalled he’d ever let them down, even in this weird unreality. He let his visual feed blank, and focused on the rolling pulse of overload as it thrummed through his full valve. 

“I wish I could keep you,” Vortex told him, his cord twitching, buried as deep as it could go. “I wish you knew you could trust me.” 

“We’re at war,” First Aid stated, and groaned as Vortex slowly withdrew. He slumped on the rotary’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, held close and guarded. He knew there would be shame later, recrimination, an endless cycle of self-examination. But now there was warmth and a soft tiredness, and strong arms catching him, lifting him.

Vortex kissed his lips, his cheeks. “I wish I could keep you all night… I need to take you back now.” 

* * *

Recharge was empty and uncomfortable. First Aid dreamed of a tight embrace, a joining of sparks and the look of horror on his commander’s face. He dreamed of rejection, and woke panting and shivering, his cord and valve still pulsing dully, still aching from their treatment the day before. 

His cord stirred as he recalled the journey back to his cell. Vortex had taken him to a shower, hot water and tender slow touches. He cringed, and curled around his spark. He remembered being tired and woozy, needy. Had he really begged to be filled again? Had Vortex sprung the catch on his chest and licked the casing of his spark while pounding him into the shower wall?

First Aid buried his face in the padding of the bunk. The discrepancy between his experience and what Jazz had prepared him for was ludicrous. He checked his databanks, then checked them again, testing each area for weakness, for any sign that Vortex had used the interface for more than simultaneous overload. 

He found none. His medical files were safe, his confidential notes had not been tampered with. He ran a final scan on the areas of his mind that were inaccessible even when he combined. Vortex had not hacked him.

Vortex had made him refuel, had given him coolant too, and made him check his hydraulic fluid and oil levels. He’d helped First Aid to walk past Brawl to his cell, and had kissed him one final time, hidden from view by the door.

Stupid, he’d returned the kiss, had acted as though this really was a dream, a little pocket of unreality divorced from consequence. There would be consequences. Court martial, demotion. He had fraternised with the enemy. No, he had allowed the enemy to manipulate him, to coerce him into interface. 

He vented deep and told himself that nothing had happened. The interrogation had been exactly as Jazz had indicated. There had been veiled threats and cajolement, lies and an emotional rollercoaster of questioning. He’d refused to speak, and had maybe struggled a little, had earnt the scrapes on his forearms, the dent in his pelvic armour. 

He made himself a fantasy of what should have happened, and saved it deep with his medical files. He transferred the true memories there also, and smeared the nanite salve Vortex had given him over the telltale scuffs between his legs. 

Morning turned to afternoon. Brawl brought a ration of energon, and First Aid made himself drink it. He listened for his fellow Autobots, heard Huffer swear about the quality of the fuel, heard Windcharger shushing him. It was only when Blast Off arrived to take Beachcomber away that First Aid had any indication of his friend’s present state. He glanced at Aid through the bars, face creased with worry. First Aid faked a smile and nodded, to show he was OK. 

He wasn’t OK. He was charged, excited, constantly stretching and pacing. He needed to transform and drive, to run. He needed Springer, the safe and wholesome choice. He needed Blades to hold and comfort him. 

Beachcomber returned, and First Aid was stunned to see him pause outside his cell. 

“Fifteen seconds,” Vortex said softly, moving into view behind him. 

“Are you all right, Aid?” Beachcomber said. His paint was duller than before, and his optics had a tiny hairline crack. 

“Oh Beachcomber… I’m fine, I… What happened to you?”

Vortex flicked his rotors, his visor brightening. 

“Nothing,” Beachcomber said. “We’re still strong.”

Vortex tugged him from the door, and pushed him towards his own cell. First Aid listened to the door open, then heard it clang shut. He watched Vortex lean against the wall by the chair Brawl usually occupied; his visor flickered. 

First Aid wanted to scream at him. He wanted to shout and rail, and do something, anything to make up for his error the day before. 

He sat on his bunk, on the padded covering no-one else was given, and tried to meditate. 

After a second he got up, paced the cell, came to the door. Vortex was looking at him. His mask was on, his body language bored, but his visor was sharp, and his fingertips snicked as they transformed constantly from rounded to claws and back. 

The evening wore on, and First Aid couldn’t stop his pacing. A tentative morse code query came from the direction of the others, and Vortex ignored it. First Aid replied, said he was fine. Vortex reminded them that conversation was not permitted. 

When his cell door finally opened, First Aid was shaking. Vortex pressed a finger to his lips for quiet, and pulled the door to behind him. Aid’s energy field was a mess, his spark flaring in arhythmic little bursts. He backed up to the far wall, and Vortex followed, taking his hands and pinning them over his head. He opened instantly, a flood of shame adding heat to his arousal. Vortex plunged a hand between his legs, smoothing the wetness there, rubbing over his anterior node. When he pulled away First Aid bit his lip to stop from groaning. Then saw what Vortex had reached for and shook his head, mouthing “No!”

But Vortex simply smiled at him, his mask retracted now, and clipped his interface cable into one of the ports on First Aid’s array. 

“I wanted to talk,” Vortex said, sending the words directly through the connection. “We can’t have them hear.”

“Use comms,” First Aid sent back, and willed himself not to recognise the urgency of his charge.

“They’re jammed, you know that.” Vortex slid two fingers inside him, his engine picking up. 

“Aid?” Beachcomber called. “Aid are you OK?”

“You can answer him,” Vortex said, flicking his thumb over Aid’s anterior node. 

Aid coughed the static from his voice. “Fine,” he said, and he knew he sounded muzzy. “I was nearly asleep. Are you OK?”

Beachcomber sighed. “Yeah, yeah fine. I… Vortex left, I was worried. Get some sleep, yeah?”

“I… I will,” First Aid called, and stifled a gasp as Vortex eased a third finger into his valve. 

“You’re so beautiful, so helpless,” Vortex told him. “I couldn’t let you leave without having you one more time.”

“L-Leave?” First Aid arched from the wall, his wrists held tight. 

“We’re letting you go,” Vortex said. “Tomorrow at dawn. You’re being exchanged.” He twisted his fingers, and First Aid’s visor blanked at the feedback from his ceiling node. “Found it, didn’t I? Look at your face, you can’t help yourself.” He brushed their lips together, and First Aid sighed against him. “Tell me you wish the war was over. I would give you everything.”

“Of course I wish the war was over!” First Aid gasped, his legs trembling. “I wish the war had never happened.”

“I don’t,” Vortex said, deepening the kiss and increasing the pace of his fingers on the ceiling node. “If it wasn’t for the war, you wouldn’t be here. They’d never have built you. Primus, I don’t want to give you up.”

First Aid bucked, his valve clenching of its own accord. “I’m not yours to give up,” he said, and the rush of jealousy through the interface was overwhelming. 

“I’ll make you mine,” Vortex growled straight into his processors. “You’ll come around.”

“Please,” First Aid whispered aloud, “please…” Then he froze at a sound in the hall outside. He tried to squirm, to dislodge the fingers, but he was pinned and spread, and Brawl was staring at him through the mesh in the door. “Oh nonono, please,” he cried through the interface, but Brawl just shrugged and retreated, and Vortex pushed his fingers deeper. 

“He won’t tell,” Vortex said. “Oh now, what was that I felt? I think you like it, being watched. You like taking risks, the danger really revs your engine. You’re such a kinky little glitch.”

First Aid hung his head and shuddered through the overload. His knees were weak when Vortex set him back on his feet, and he allowed himself to be brought forward, facing the door. Vortex got behind him, hands roaming over his chest, his waist, dipping between his legs to briefly tease his cord and plunge into the wetness dripping from his overheated valve. 

“Spread your legs,” Vortex said, wrapping his arms around him. “That’s it, knees apart, lean forward just a little. I’ve got you, I won’t let you fall.” 

First Aid gripped Vortex’s arms for balance, then gasped as he was lifted, his back flush to Vortex’s front, his aft tilted and the tips of his feet just clear of the floor. He heard the subtle whir of a panel opening, and felt the hot, blunt tip of Vortex’s cord. He was so ready, the intrusion was smooth, the stretch a thrill cutting through the fading satisfaction of his climax. This couldn’t be what he wanted, it was so wrong, but he bit his lip and tried desperately not to moan as Vortex slid slowly, quietly in and out of him. 

Brawl was outside. He knew what was happening. First Aid expected him to watch at the door, but perhaps there were cameras, perhaps he could watch if he wanted without needing to show himself. Was Beachcomber still awake? Was Windcharger? Huffer? They couldn’t hear this, they couldn’t know. First Aid tried to struggle, but Vortex held him still, keeping that same slow, gentle pace. 

Aid huffed as he was pushed forward, fingers again between his legs, coaxing the charge at his anterior node.

“Is this enough for you?” Vortex said through the connection. “Or maybe you need something more.” A pressure at the mouth of his valve, and First Aid’s jaw dropped, his innards pulsing. Vortex’s cord shifted, no longer quite so smooth, and the ridges as he thrust caught every single node. 

First Aid’s fans increased, his cord began to leak. And still Vortex took him slowly, quietly spreading him wide with each long controlled thrust, the flanges dragging on his nodes with each aching withdrawal. 

His climax built equally slowly, inexorable, terrible in its intensity. He tried to tell himself this was a dream as well, but Brawl had seen them, Brawl had looked at his stuffed valve, his pressurised cord, and had shrugged and walked away. Brawl had seen them, and no matter how quietly Vortex thrust into him, they had to be making some noise, the others couldn’t fail to hear them. 

“So perfect,” Vortex whispered, and he thrust hard, spiralling them both into a heady, hard overload. 

Black stars crackled in First Aid’s optics, his spark erupted. He screamed silently into the interface, and his cord discharged in a spurting silver arc onto the floor. A new heat filled him, leaking a little as Vortex gave a few more slow and gentle thrusts. 

“You done in there?” Brawl demanded, and First Aid cringed. “Just shut up.” He kicked the door, and Vortex sent a pulse of amusement through the connection. 

“That was wonderful,” he said, turning Aid in his arms to kiss him. “Utterly perfect.”

To First Aid’s surprise, Vortex carefully cleaned the mess he’d caused before slinking quietly from the cell. First Aid covered his face with his hands. If only he’d used the cloths he’d brought, and not his tongue, on First Aid’s cord and valve. He was charged again, his nodes aching for contact. 

He drank the rest of the coolant from under his bunk, and used the brush and oil to clean his hands. Every so often Brawl came to look at him through the bars, and First Aid prayed he wouldn’t want a share of what Vortex had taken. 

But Brawl never came in, and Vortex didn’t come back. Aid’s chronometer rolled past midnight, into the small hours. It was nearly dawn in their timezone when the Combaticons as a whole came to fetch them. 

First Aid watched as Windcharger and Huffer were led cuffed past his door. Then Beachcomber, that frown still on his face, the worry etched deep. When Vortex came for him, First Aid was trembling. 

“I told you so,” Vortex whispered, then louder, “Turn around, hands behind you, you know the drill.”

The rotary’s own hands were busy, and First Aid kept his head down, glad they were at the end of the column. Vortex pressed something into the palm of his hand and wrapped his fingers around it. “Springer, in the woods,” he whispered. “As promised.”

First Aid held it tight as they boarded Blast Off, and kept both hands balled through the whole exchange - the four Autobots for Starscream and the smallest Constructicon. On Skyfire, he huddled tight in Hot Spot’s arms and managed to slip the object into a compartment on his leg. Not a videotape after all, but a data crystal, its facets glinting as he tucked it away. 

* * *

It was a month before he could bring himself to acknowledge the crystal. Another month before he found the time, the privacy, to slot it into a datapad. A further week before he could bring himself to view the contents. 

He sat on the edge of his bunk. Streetwise was dozing in the room next door, Blades and Groove laughing down the hall. 

He opened the file.

Vortex hadn’t been lying. Not about this. There he was, with Springer, play-chasing through the woods to the east of the Ark. Springer had caught him and kissed him, and they’d interfaced in joy and excitement against the base of the cliff. Reflector had caught it all, every sight and sound, and First Aid knew he should be ashamed, but it was as though the events with Vortex had used up every source of shame, and he was left jittery and vaguely empty. 

He watched the file to the end, his optics rebooting as the visual changed. A human-scale videotape melted and disintegrated under the beam of a laser pistol. First Aid stared, and waited, then searched the data crystal for hidden files, for encrypted messages or codes. There were none. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected. A promise, perhaps, a threat. A reiteration of Vortex’s intentions. He transferred the contents of the crystal to his own internal storage and put it back in his compartment. 

Venting deep to counteract the crackle of charge, he left his room and went back to work.


End file.
